[1] String-bed.

CHAPTER x.x.xV.

"Why was the pause prolonged, but that singing should issue thence?

Why rushed the discords in, but that harmony should be prized!"

--Browning.

Quita Lenox lay back in a long low chair, lost in thought, her hands clasped behind her head, the folds of her dull-blue tea-gown trailing on the carpet. A cushion of darker blue threw into stronger relief the brighter tints of her hair; and at her throat three rough lumps of Tibetan turquoise--recently sent by Lenox--hung on a fine gold chain.

His last letter, full of the discovery of his Pa.s.s, lay open on her knee,--read and re-read till its contents were stamped upon her brain; and it seemed to her high time that a fresh one came to take its place.

But the days slipped by--uneventful days, in which the long chair played a definite part--and no envelope in his hand-writing came to cheer her.

Yet she was far removed from unhappiness. Her increasing pride in him, and in his achievement, prevented that. Only there were moments when the inner vision was too vivid; moments between sleep and waking when pictures trooped unbidden through the corridors of her brain; when neither sleep nor effort of will could shield her from that awful visualisation of the dreaded thing, which is the artist's penalty in the day of trouble. At such times, the fear that he might slip out of her life without knowledge of the great fact, that no amount of repet.i.tion can minimise, nor custom stale; without knowledge that through his long love and constancy she had attained to the 'greatest creative art of all,' had almost dragged her out of bed at midnight to begin the letter that should carry the word to him amid the sublimity of his glaciers and eternal silences. But always something stronger than fear had restrained her; so that the weeks had dropped away one by one, like faded petals, and the secret that was to be the crowning glory of their new life together still lay hidden in her heart.

The cheerful round of festivities common to an Indian Hill season had pa.s.sed her by; and she was content to have it so. Between her canvas and her unpractised needle, between the companionship of Michael, and of the Desmonds--while they were 'up'--her days had gone softly, yet pleasantly and profitably in more respects than one. For it is in the pauses between times of activity and stress that the still small voice of G.o.d speaks most clearly to the soul; that power is generated and garnered against the hidden things that shall be. It is in the pauses that we can, as it were, stand back a s.p.a.ce from our own corner of the picture we are so zealously making or marring, and catch an illuminating glimpse of the proportions of the whole.

Thus it had been with Quita Lenox. In these four months of seeming inactivity, the large, underlying forces of life had been silently at work in her, touching the impressionable spirit of her to 'fine issues'

that the sure years would reveal. Nor had her time of quiet been lacking in immediate results. A completed picture stood to her credit; and a drawer full of surprising achievements in the way of needlecraft; achievements so pathetically small that at times the sight of them brought tears to her eyes.

But this afternoon neither brush nor needle tempted her. In spirit she was with her husband, trying by concentration of thought to bridge the s.p.a.ce between. But always her thoughts ended in one cry: If only--if only--he could get back in time!

Michael Maurice had stayed on at the Crow's Nest, possibly from laziness, possibly for other reasons; and its little studio-drawing-room was as attractive, as untidy, and as eloquent of Quita's personality as it had been sixteen months ago. It was late August now; and a week's break in the rains had given the drenched hills and those who dwelt upon them a foretaste of that elixir of light and air which makes September the crowning month of the Himalayan year.

And to Quita it gave promise that her days of waiting were numbered.

In a week she would follow the Desmonds to Dera Ishmael, and remain with them, at their urgent invitation, till her husband's return. The friendly smile of the sun after days of downpour and restless mist lifted her to renewed hope that in spite of the mountains he would surely reach her in time.

From the open door a stream of afternoon light barred the room with gold. Pa.s.sing across her prostrate figure, it fell full upon her easel, and upon the picture in which she had tried to express her own solution of the artist's eternal problem--Art or Love. It had been begun as a subject-picture, inspired by the impa.s.sioned cry of Aurora Leigh: "Oh, Art, my Art! Thou art much; but Love is more!" Then because her taste leaned always to the actual, and because the picture was to be a present for her husband, the woman's figure had grown into a portrait of herself; a thing so living, so eloquent of her new appealing charm, that even Michael's critical spirit had been roused to enthusiasm. He had one quarrel only with her achievement, namely, that it was not to be his own!

In detail, the picture was simplicity itself. Merely the woman beside her easel, turning eagerly away from it as if at the sound of a footstep; every line and curve of her athrill with expectancy, her eyes luminous with the dawn of a new truth, a new ecstasy of heart and spirit; while at her feet her palette lay broken in a dozen pieces, and her canvas had fallen, unheeded, to the ground. An open doorway behind her revealed a glimpse of sunlit verandah, trellis-work and honeysuckle; revealed also an unmistakable length of shadow,--the head and shoulders of the man whose large, lonely personality had so taken possession of her, as to transform her whole vision of life. And below the canvas, on the gilding of the frame, were graven the words: 'Love is more.'

For all her delight in this last work of her hands, there were days when the sight of it p.r.i.c.ked her to an anguish of impatience, shadowed always by the darker anguish of fear lest the ecstasy she had so vividly portrayed should be s.n.a.t.c.hed untasted from out her grasp; lest the footstep her heart hungered for should never come back into her life. But she fought resolutely against such black moods, for Michael's sake no less than her own. His joy in getting her back had done much to soften the pang of separation; and now, while she lay waiting and dreaming,--too lazy to pour out tea till he came--it was his footstep that put her dreams to flight.

He had been out on the Kajiar road 'taking notes,' and he flourished a sketch-book at her by way of greeting.

"Tea, _cherie_? _Ah, c'est bien_. I am thirsty!"

She flung out her left hand and took possession of the book.

"Pour it out yourself, there's a dear; and mine too."

"_Voila donc_! What laziness!"

"Energetic people are privileged to be lazy--sometimes."

He laughed, and obeyed her, setting a cup and plate within reach.

"You seem to have been making the most of your privilege. Have you done anything while I was out?"

"But yes. I have been possessing my soul in quietness; and--I have been talking to Eldred."

He pa.s.sed a caressing hand over her hair.

"_Pauvre pet.i.te_! How much of that do you really believe?"

"Don't ask uncomfortable questions! At least it helps a little when I feel I can't wait any longer, and--I am almost sure it helps him too.

I shall find that out when--_if_ he gets back."

"Let 'ifs' alone, _ma belle_. They are gadflies of the devil's breeding. That great Scotchman of yours would work his way back to you, if he had to go through h.e.l.l to do it. _Moi, je le sais_."

She flushed softly; and her eyes looked beyond his through the open doorway, rapt and shining.

"You _do_ believe in him now, Michel," she said. "And you forgive him?

He has made me so supremely happy."

Michael shook his head.

"Was I ever an altruist, _pet.i.te soeur_? If the man had not made you happy, I should never have rested till I had you back again. As it is--" he shrugged his shoulders with an expressive turn of the hands--"one is glad--for your sake; and one makes the best of an empty house. But, _mon Dieu_! it _is_ empty without you, Quita! You have light and fire in you;--now, more than ever. You have temperament.

You inspire a man. Your absence actually affects the quality of my work. Absurd; but true! And as for my affairs--_nom de Dieu_, the money slips away like water, but the bills never get paid! You saw how it was when you came. And in one little week you go again, with a light heart; while I return, _faute de mieux_, to my 'wallowing in the mire!'"

"_Mon pauvre Michel_!" she said softly. "What a tragedy! You make me wish I was twins!"

But a smile gleamed through her tenderness; for, while she loved him dearly, she knew every turn and phase of his character; knew that the picture of desolation, so feelingly drawn, was seen for the moment through the magnifying lens of self-pity. Yet her concern for him was genuine, deep-rooted, a habit dating from the days of pinafores and broken toys. To keep Michael happy had, for long, been the chief part of her religion: the least of his troubles, real or imaginary, still had the ancient entry to her heart; and now she leaned impulsively towards him, elbows on knees, her chin in her hands, her eyes resting in his.

"It is not true that I leave you lightly, _mon cher_; nor that I love you less because I have given myself to another--body and soul.

Indeed, I think the very bigness of my feeling for him has made love go deeper with me in all directions, has opened my eyes to see that to love means no less than changing the axis on which one's whole nature revolves. There's the stumbling-block with us artists. We rebel by instinct against anything that threatens to encroach upon our cherished _ego_; and excuse ourselves on the plea that it would undermine our art. But that is not true;--oh, believe me it's not."

Michael's shoulders went up again, and he smiled indulgently. But behind the smile lurked a shadow of gravity unusual in him. He had been aware of hidden changes in her, but this was his first glimpse into the depths.

"Possibly not, _cherie_--for a woman," he admitted grudgingly. "But for a man----"

"Yes, even for a man, dear ignoramus!" she broke in eagerly, setting her two hands upon his knees. "Love may fill more of a woman's horizon; but it goes deeper with men,--of the right sort, even if they are artists! Look at Browning. _He_ knew. A big brain may set you on a pinnacle, Michel; but a big love keeps you human, sets your pulses beating in tune with all the hidden harmonies of the world."

A hot wave of shyness checked her. She withdrew her hands hastily, and sat upright.

"_Tiens_! But I am preaching! A new vice, _n'est ce pas_?"

"New enough to be interesting, . . and forgivable! What's your text?"

"Need you ask? The first remark ever made upon the subject: 'It is not good that the man should be alone.'"

A dull flush showed under Michael's sallow akin.

"_C'est a dire, il faut se ranger_!" he said with an embarra.s.sed laugh.

"Well . . . find me a woman who understands and inspires me like yourself, and it is possible,--I do not say probable,--that I may yet fulfil the whole duty of man. If one could only suggest a five years'

contract . . !"